The one where I pretend to speak Mandinka

---

I live in the Tower of Babble. With multiple different local languages, mixed with some form of English, and a bit of French, it is a sure fire way to get lost in a sea of translation confusion. As Bill Murray and Scarlet Johnason were, I too am lost in translation. Take last week for example. I went to Sukuta (a village about half on hour from where I live) to visit friends. Most of them speak Mandinka (which I know only greetings and basic phrases in), Wolof (which I am SEMI proficient in), and “Gambian English”. When white, non-local speakers come into the mix, it can get a little messy. While trying to speak Wolof to the Mandinkas, the Mandinka speakers are trying to make me speak their language, and firing off what I am trying to say in Mandinka. When I try to speak English, I have to over annunciate my words, and put on what I like to call the “Gambian-Brit accent”. I can’t really explain it in words, but it proves effective in fluent communication with Gambians. It is a bit difficult for everyone to understand each other though in any case, which mostly leads to a lot of laughing and hand clapping when I get the local language correct. Sitting and chatting like this is bit like being drunk. You aren’t really sure what people are saying, there’s a lot of rapid head movements to either side to differentiate where the chatter is coming from, everything is funny (even when it doesn’t make sense), and you start to put on queer fake accents. In these situations, I also start singing Queen or I Touch Myself by the Dyvinals, or dancing with flailing arms to make people laugh (also similar to being a bit tipsy). This is a good way to get the conversation to change to you, in a language you can understand, rather than talking about how spicy the rice is in 400 different tongues. I’m comfortable with people talking about me for a while… at least I know what they are talking about. My favorite is whipping out the few proverbs I can say in local language…it always gets a rise. People eat that shit up.

On the way home from Sukuta, my friend and I passed through the Serrekunda market to get another bush taxi home. I’m pretty sure Serrekunda is where the Bermuda triangle lets out. It’s like entering Diagon Alley in Harry Potter. There are people crammed everywhere, smells of fish erupting from every angle, narrow streets with 5 toothed people trying to touch you, and random crap hanging up everywhere. My friend and I spotted some full out denim outfits hanging on a wall outside, and decided we NEEDED to have a looksy. In the middle of the street, I succumbed to the highest of all public humiliations…trying on tight fitting clothes that pulls your original clothes right off your body when you try to get them off. The man who was in charge of the denim paradise barely spoke English, and didn’t have a mirror to admire myself in. So I took the queue on how I looked from people on the street. They all assured me my denim leisure suit was nice. After trying on a few, trying to haggle a good price, and getting gawked out from all angles, I decided I had to fight or flight. I am now currently wearing my new, skin tight, denim leisure suit… amen.

Quote of the post:
“When I’m good I’m good…when I’m bad I’m better” -Mae West

---

Comments

[deleted_49612]

I love your writing style. :) Mel